


between a rock and a hard place

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Choking, Cock Slut, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Large Cock, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Size Difference, Size Kink, Threesome - M/M/M, an excessive amount of build up, eskel has a bigger dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: in which, after a long hunt with his brother, eskel winds up in a strange threesome with geralt's mouthy bard. it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762969
Comments: 87
Kudos: 921
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	between a rock and a hard place

He hasn’t seen Geralt in almost a half a year when finally the heavens open to him with a path to his White Wolf, a whisper of a rumor on wagging tongues that speak of a hired Witcher - a wolf - in the next baron’s land. An entire pack of werewolves, and oh the mild irony of that, had taken up residence in the woods, circling the town closer and closer. What keepers of farmhouses and cottages hadn’t been slaughtered and stolen had abandoned their lands, fleeing to the baron for support. And he had sent human soldiers to die as prey beneath beastly teeth. What then to do but ask for and pray for a Witcher to rend this burden from the land?

Jaskier is late to the rumor, such is their nature, but it’s the closest he’s been to Geralt in far too long. Between his noble title and his profession, the Baron and Baroness of the land are all too pleased to host him, especially as he is the Bard of the Witcher.

“Beastly fellows,” the Baron had concluded, gaining only that from Jaskier’s wildly painted portrait of Geralt’s noble nature, his unparalleled skill, his unquestionable charms. “But useful. Monsters to kill a monster.”

Jaskier bit his teeth to keep from snapping. “A monster-hunter, my lord.”

So he sings about Geralt of Rivia for the whole day until the Witcher comes marching back to the noble house. The hunt had apparently taken three full weeks, during which time the Witcher had been out stalking and fighting, hunting and lurking, everyone waiting for him to return or for his body to show up on the Baron’s doorstep for a burning. It’s a big job, a well-paying one. It will be one for a great epic, no gremlins and chickens.

“A Witcher’s returned!” a servant warns, shaking enough to jangle the baubles of his uniform. He faints against the heavy door of the massive hall, holding it open with his full weight.

Jaskier loves this part. He loves when Geralt walks into the room, blood covered, victorious, a snarl in his mouth. He loves the shock and surrender of the people, when they’re proper about it. He loves the awe; he loves the monster’s gored head. He knows it’s macabre of him but how can he not enjoy seeing Geralt return to him safely, for Jaskier to sing once more of his heroics?

He starts plucking his strings in quivering anticipation, ready to leap to his feet, poised for the moment.

The Witcher walks quietly into the Baron’s hall, passing into the flickering light cast by mounted torches. He has a bloodless bouquet of heads swinging from his hand, drained off and strung together.

Everyone’s quiet as the Witcher drops the heads at the Baron’s feet, dried blood flaking black from his body, his clothes, with the gesture. The heads smell badly, hot turned meat.

Jaskier skips most of the verses of his song, settles on a slightly awkward parroting of only “toss a coin to your Witcher,” choral line on repeat. He peters out, looking away from the Witcher, the smell, the strangeness.

Because it’s not Geralt.

This Witcher is massive, moreso than Geralt, broader, almost too large for himself. His arms seem oddly long, his hands like they’d be too big to hold anything save a sword or a severed head. His feet must flatten the earth with every step. His face is wide, lopsided with deep scaring that pulls his expression into a perpetual moue. Nothing about him scares or disturbs Jaskier, the only poor quality is the unfortunate fact that he is not Geralt of Rivia.

There’s a brief back and forth between the Baron and the Witcher, nothing dramatic. Gratitude, glee at the death of the werewolves, a vague and polite form of humility and kindness that pleases Jaskier for the sake of the Witcher but doesn’t really take shape in his head, so clouded by disappointment is he.

When the actual exchange of coin takes place, Jaskier finally comes back to his senses and listens, because a story is a story even if it lacks his favorite character.

“I suppose you are a richer man for coming back without the other. Shame for your ilk, not made like they once were. But the strongest survives, and that is natural enough.”

A heavy fear settles over Jaskier as he really looks at the Witcher, seeing past the simple Not-Geralt aspect to the mostly concealed but too familiar medallion just peeking from his cloak. A wolf. Impulse and anxiety runs swiftly through him. He knows he heard of a wolf of a Witcher here - was it simply this, the medallion, the school? But rumors are rarely so keen on such details. It has to be his White Wolf, he who Jaskier himself named such. And that meant this other, this other Witcher that hadn’t returned --

Geralt’s not supposed to die. He can’t die. The very idea is laughable. Geralt of Rivia is not allowed to die. Not at all. The sun rises in the east and Geralt of Rivia lives another day, that’s the law of nature Jaskier relies on.

He doesn’t know what he smells like, what panic smells like, or fear or the cusp of grief he’s teetering the edge of at his own spiralling thoughts, but whatever he smells like, looks like, sounds like, the Witcher that is not Geralt looks at him finally, and to be caught under the amber glass of his eyes is to be frozen.

“My companion is not dead,” the Witcher says, more to Jaskier than the Baron; his brow ticks at the heavy breath Jaskier releases. “He’s merely-”

“Another!” the server at the door cries. “My Lord, here comes the other Witcher.”

Jaskier, who’d been sitting on the edge of the raised diadem, coyly waiting by a pillar, striking a rather fancy pose that had soured with the moment, sprang restored, renewed, eager for - yes!

“Being dramatic,” the other Witcher finishes despite no one listening. He sighs tiredly.

Geralt strides into the room, dragging behind him the better half of an immense werewolf, the head scruffed in his hand, face pointed out in a beastly snarl still terrifying even in the rigor of death. The Baroness lets out a terrified squeal, turning into her husband’s shoulder; the Baron looks suitably ill with latent fear.

Jaskier beams, all but clicking his heels as he volts himself between the two Witchers, sketching the quickest of bows before whirling on his heels with a triumphant strike of chords as he sings a jig to lighten the mood and pretend like the room doesn’t smell of spoiled death.

 _He came with a growl, and a huff and a scowl  
He came and he spat, and he hacked and he slashed  
He came with his sword, a victor for a lord  
He came all in white this wolf of my night  
He came back to we with a monster to see  
He came for the coin, for your purses and my loins  
He came and devoured, he pleasured and deflowered  
He came unto me, a friend of humanity  
He came unto me, a friend of humanity,  
__he came unto me, a friend of humanity,_  
he came unto me, he came unto me,  
he came unto me, - for free!

Geralt valiantly ignores him.

The other Witcher does not, head swivelling and eyes tracking Jaskier as he flits around them and throws one too many pointed winks at all and present company. It works, regardless of what a certain stodgy Witcher might think, because the Baroness titters to her husband and the Baron looks amused and maybe no one will notice the trail of sticky blood and mudded prints that Geralt has traipsed through the entire damn place.

“Thank you, Witchers, for bringing the heads so that my people may know they are safe once more and burn these in the stead of the bodies they did not have of their own to mourn. You’ve spared many young soldiers their own lives.”

Because what attempts the Baron and the people of the land had made against an entire bloody pack had been met with cruel death; course, a minute ago, the Baron hadn’t had much thought for the cost of the Witchers’ own lives; but then, the Witchers lived their liminal life, not asking for enough, gloriless, unimaginative. No sense of dramatics. Until now, apparently.

Jaskier does not possess the humility to think Geralt’s entrance had been anything but taken from Jaskier’s own suggestions.

Frankly, he’s never been prouder.

“May I entreat my good lord to allow me the necessary privilege of tending to our good Witchers, for I demanded by my craft to honor heroes and tease the finest grit of their story from them for everyone to know,” Jaskier asks nobly, hand to his heart as he turns his attention back to the Baron, capitalizing on his good mood. “I must craft a proper memorialization so that the people of the land can remember their pain and their liberation by your power and employment of two monster-hunters.”

Because Geralt and the other Witcher have been, for almost a month, out in the woods, roaming and stalking, and both are in desperate need of several baths and much ale and food. The Baron grants them liberal permission and accommodations. Jaskier has luxury to share, nay, to force upon his Witcher. He is determined to see Geralt burnished and shining beneath his hands; for a rare moment, he can truly show his worth, expressing the privilege of gratitude to him.

And the other Witcher too, he supposes.

Jaskier leads them out of the hall with a cheery tootle, holding himself back all the while from touching Geralt. The two Witchers flank him on either side.

“You reek, dearest Witcher,” Jaskier laughs, stepping ahead of them to avoid the bubble of air. “My hands will be pruned from scrubbing you clean; I shan’t be able to play a note all night for it.”

“Pity,” Geralt says, lacking any ounce of proper grief over the matter. “Pity too you found me.”

“Oh, hush, you are beside yourself with joy,” Jaskier sniffs. He side-steps to plant himself in the way of the other Witcher, who draws up nearly upon Jaskier. “Forgive me, Sir Witcher, for my poor performance at your appearance just prior. I was expecting my own dear Witcher and was thrown off course, a shame upon my profession-” Geralt sighs tiredly beside them and keeps walking- “but please allow me to tend to you tonight, as is my pleasure, for I’m but a humble bard ever questing to honor and reveal the hidden heroics-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls to him, a well ways down the hall. Jaskier ignores him, carrying on.

“It is my immense pleasure to be acquainted with another Witcher, especially a companion of Geralt’s, who is my dearest friend; I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, more commonly known as Jaskier the Bard,” and there’s not space for a bow or theatrics or even an offering of a hand, so he settles for clapping the Witcher on his shoulder in a rugged show of masculine companionship, the way Geralt does to him.

To his great delight, the other Witcher mirrors the gesture, massive hand consuming all of his shoulder, thumb slanted under his neck, fingers folded over his neck. Jaskier swallows hotly, an unexpected weakness like a blow to the knee striking him.

“Eskel, School of the Wolf.” Eskel smiles, and the scars pull his lips up crookedly and it has a certain boyish charm to it that Jaskier was not prepared to notice but now cannot unnotice, for that broad face is sweeter to see when Jaskier is not so direly disappointed that it’s not Geralt’s face.

Jaskier wants to touch him.

Geralt has remarked, upon occasion, that Jaskier possesses a particular...potency. A drunken fuckable quality to the blood in his veins. Or something ridiculous like that that left Jaskier sniffing his wrists and armpits to no avail while Geralt rolled his eyes and pretended like he wasn’t completely enamored. Really, all the information did was make Jaskier wag his arms about when he was horny or pissed and cast smelly aspersions at Geralt when it suited him, a poor man’s attempt as spellwork and charm. More often than not made Geralt particularly surly for the evening.

But Geralt’s always on that kind of horseshit because Eskel’s pupils blow wide at whatever Jaskier’s body is brewing up as soon as Jaskier decides that the fingers at his neck would be lovely wrapped all the way around his throat.

Politely, stiffly, Eskel withdraws his touch and hurries onward, following the now disappeared trail of Geralt.

Fucking Witchers.

Geralt’s already naked in the bathroom room, having followed Jaskier’s ridiculous smelling perfumes and salts and oils to where the bard was put up in the lord’s house. It’s a lovely view, a well-missed view that Jaskier makes several plans to tend to, minus the mauled leg.

“How the hell are you walking?” Jaskier snaps, storming past Eskel to inspect the wound with a queasy dedication to keeping Geralt in relatively one piece. “I don’t see you for months and this is the condition in which you return yourself to me?”

He kneels down at Geralt’s feet, hand easy and sure on Geralt’s leg to hold him still. The wound’s at least a few days old, crusted over with clear pus along the seam of some very poorly done stitches. “Who sewed this, it’s so raggedy. A one-eyed cow would do a better job. Is this your shit job Geralt?”

“It’s mine,” Eskel volunteers.

“Well!” Jaskier shakes his head, looking over his shoulder at Eskel with blatant disappointment. “Terrible job, Sir Witcher. Truly. A needle and thread suits you least of any task.”

Eskel looks at his hands for blame. “I’m not exactly dexterous with such a small pin.”

Understatement. He pats Geralt’s naked hip, looking up at him in apology. “Can I redo the stitches?”

Geralt rests a hand on his head, scrubbing Jaskier’s fringe back from his face. Fond exasperation softens his mouth. “It’s fine, Jaskier. My brother did his best.”

It will be a nasty scar, and one day might ache in a bitter winter. But Geralt will not notice it amongst the rest of his tired bones. Jaskier lingers at his feet, lost to the thought, hand running down to the tight tendon of Geralt’s ankle, caressing the fragile thread of his body.

“Lambert’s the best at stitches,” Eskel says, shuffling around the room as he discards his armor. “Smallest pup of the pack.” There’s a lot of ways Jaskier could respond to that but he can only handle so much information right now; he has to prioritize.

“He’s a runt,” Geralt grunts.

Both of them are radiating a terrible stench, the trapped smells of blood and sweat kept to their bodies for too long released from their armor and their clothes. Jaskier regards Eskel to see his own injuries, also on his legs. Fair enough; they don’t wear more than leathers down there. His calf is dotted with a mess of bite wounds. Jaskier tries to picture the werwolve’s wide mouths latched onto him, pulling him down like a deer.

“I want every detail of this hunt, my dearest,” Jaskier demands, pressing his face into Geralt’s hand, relishing how Geralt curls his fingers beneath his chin, thumb swiping against the shell of his ear.

“Two Witchers against a pack of werewolves? At the proper request of a lord? Oh ho, I am in the thick of the story at the perfect time.” He missed all the tiresome waiting and killing part, now he can glean the best bits from the comfort of a bath with a bottle of wine. Truly he has a gift for these things.

“Hmm.”

“This is the bard,” Eskel realizes. “Who wrote that song Lambert bitches about.”

“This is the bard,” Geralt confirms, patting Jaskier’s cheek and stepping away, naked and familiar and making Jaskier ache to see him.

Servants arrive first with a few hot buckets of water and towels and robes and brushes. Jaskier strips out of his clothes, down to just a shirt, ass out, sleeves rolled, and sets about on Geralt, washing him from head to toe, as is his familiar and self-appointed duty. He starts in on the task immediately, chatting about his time away from Geralt, temporarily oblivious to having a second party in attendance as he sits Geralt down on a stool and wets his back with a hot cloth, pressing firmly into his neck, watching him drop his head in grateful submission. Jaskier loves this, this gift, this power. He adores Geralt’s surrender to tenderness.

Days like this, when they have long hours of luxury, Jaskier makes the most of Geralt’s soft underbelly and shy habits. He really is a sweet creature despite years of starvation. Jaskier wishes him more selfish at times, if only for Geralt to take what he wants, to meet his own needs. But he isn’t, and Jaskier has become selfish in his stead, with him, forceful in his care even when Geralt curses him for it. Some days, yes, Geralt plays with him, acts rough, nips him during a cuddle Jaskier’s weedled his way into but those days are gifts.

All days with Geralt are gifts.

Water sloshes beside them. Jaskier startles from his thoughts, from his absent-minded chatter about some idiot noble’s terrible attempt to convince Jaskier he’d killed a rogue griffin. Eskel’s rubbing roughly at his shoulders with his wet cloth, rivulets of water running down his chest, catching around his medallion. He really is an immense figure, with hair all across his belly and down through his crotch and thighs, his toes, whereas Geralt only has his tightly curled trim around his chest and a surprisingly sparse pubic hair that runs up his balls and crack into a little bit of sweet pettable silk along the base of his spine, nearly naked of hair on his thighs and legs.

Jaskier’s the furriest of the three of them, a laughable idea, but he’s a bushy little man beneath his doublets. Geralt once threatened to skin his pelt and use him as a blanket. It was one of his more creative threats.

“Eskel,” Jaskier says, light, tentative, but not shy, not for his own sake, “if you give me a few minutes, I will take care of you.”

Geralt twitches under his hands. Eskel, for his part, slides his eyes away from them both. Had he been watching all this time? What did it look like to see Geralt bowed beneath Jaskier’s hands?

“I am not your dear Witcher,” Eskel objects, as if sparring Jaskier a burden that is not his to bear.

“That won’t stop him,” Geralt murmurs. “He’ll find a way to slather you in oil when you least expect it.”

“It’s true. I shall. I shall have you as sweet and soft as a bride by the end of the night. You will be virginal in your glow when I am through.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt huffs, shaking his head, “you have never left anything in your life in a virginal state.”

Jaskier gasps and leans against him, wetting his shirt and pointedly pressing his, albit soft, cock between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “That’s defamatory.”

“It’s the truest judgement ever passed upon you.”

“It’s a slight against my character.”

“You are two cells from an incubus.”

“You’ve never complained once, my dear.”

“Who complains about an eager cocksucker?” Geralt throws this out loudly, teasing, turning to watch Jaskier’s face flush. Jaskier presses against him, dick twitching, the words hot and crawling over him as sure as a hand.

“You missed me Geralt, don’t try to hide it,” Jaskier leers, leaning down to wrap his arms around Geralt’s neck, making a point to rub the inside of his wrists under Geralt’s jawline. He’s rewarded with Geralt’s long-drawn inhale and the duck and dip of his nose to chase the blue veins up Jaskier’s arms.

“As a dog would miss a flea,” Geralt muses, rubbing his newly grown beard against Jaskier’s wrists.

“You are a wolf, my dear, and if I’m a flea, tis only to give you the most pleasant itch to scratch.”

Unfortunately, the flirtation is short-lived as he gets a proper whiff of Geralt’s hair. He recoils with a pat to the Witcher’s head and a renewed sense of urgency to have him clean. “Come now, Witchers, no distracting me from my work. My eyes burn at this stench.”

And as if he’s summoned them, a processional enters the bathroom after a knock that Jaskier calls to, and bucket after bucket of steaming hot water is carried in to fill the immense inset bath. The room’s terribly luxurious, but Jaskier is also the only other noble in the home and thus privileged to the best accommodations. It’s his best show of fortune yet for Geralt to enjoy, all the better for the second Witcher to have the benefit as well.

The water is followed by food, pitchers of ale, and two bottles of good wine. Jaskier orders the bottles opened and poured, a servant quick to comply. Jaskier presses a cup into each Witcher’s hand, taking the unnecessary moment to curl Eskel’s fingers around the cup like the Witcher can’t do it himself but Jaskier wants desperately to watch and feel how he dwarfs the small vessel.

Eskel makes for a very nice statue, so still, even holding his breath as Jaskier hovers in his personal space.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks to his dear darling Geralt, who is leveling him with a look.

“I’m being polite,” Jaskier sniffs, coming back to him. Geralt catches his naked hip in a firm grip, reeling him in. It’s been months and Jaskier is weak to his touch, giving easily as Geralt pulls him closer, settles a second hand on him.

“Behave,” Geralt orders, squeezing him gently. “Leave Eskel be or I will lock you out of this room. We both do want a bath without your incessant annoyances.”

“Rude. Very rude, Geralt. It’s my room.”

Geralt presses his thumbs warningly against the juncture of his hips, a sensitive spot that makes Jaskier flinch and twitch. Jaskier slaps his hands away and circles around behind him once more, sloshing the wet rag against him with far less finesse than before. “Fine. Fine, you pushy brute. Be quiet and let me work, you’re ceaseless chatter and wandering hands hinder my gracious doting.”

Geralt snorts at his outlandish falsity, but all the same, Eskel washes himself down in relative unmolested privacy. Still, Jaskier knows he’s being watched as he kneels between Geralt’s naked legs to lift his feet and run the cloth over them. Watched by Geralt with his hooded gaze that doesn’t waver, that takes in all of Jaskier and his offering, and watched by Eskel like he can’t help it, too starved to look away from the feast of affection that is Jaskier.

After, he sits along the edge of the bath, naked now alongside the Witchers. Both are submerged nearly to their shoulders, almost asleep as they let themselves relax in the hot water. Jaskier uses a cup to wet Geralt’s hair back, his liberally oiled hands working his hair free of tangles from root to tip. He wants to accuse Geralt of vanity with his hair, but it’s so strange and lovely, and he doesn’t want to touch this precious thing he holds onto that’s impracticable and undeniably his own choice.

He’s left Eskel alone all the while, heeding Geralt’s protective warning over his brother. He can’t be silent much longer, that’s too much to ask of him, he’d go mad if left in his own head and not given an outlet. Jaskier’s desperate to know how long they’ve been traveling together, if this was an accident or a choice; he wants to know of Geralt in his youth, his secrets, his embarrassments.

“Are you two meditating?” he asks their listless forms. Neither reply. Geralt’s head is heavy in his hands and Jaskier eases it to rest against the floor that surrounds the tub. He scrambles to his feet and fetches his salts and oils, sprinkling mightily into the water.

Eskel sneezes a moment later. He grumbles and sits up, rubbing his face with a wet hand.

“Sorry,” Jaskier apologizes, ducking away and shoving the cap onto the jar. “Geralt doesn’t mind chamomile oil.”

Geralt _likes_ chamomile oil.

Eskel glances sidelong at his dozing brother and shakes his head. “I do not mind it either, little bard.” He swishes his hand thoughtfully through the water. The salts cloud the water, adding a faintly blue hue; speckles of dried flowers float along the surface. The Witcher looks thoughtfully embarrassed at the blur of his reflection in the water. “It just...surprised me. I’ve never used such a thing.”

Satisfied he hasn’t gone and poisoned Eskel’s delicate senses, Jaskier slips into the water, insinuating himself between the Witcher’s. Eskel stretches his arm across to touch Geralt lightly, sliding his hand beneath his brother’s skull to cradle it from the ground. Jaskier inadvertently rests himself too against Eskel’s strong arm, sitting snugly between them. Even Geralt’s big dumb head looks sort of small in Eskel’s palm.

“He hasn’t been this relaxed in years,” Eskel admires, tipping his head towards Jaskier to whisper.

“He likes his hair played with,” Jaskier whispers back, warm with the water and the acknowledgement of his effects.

“ _He_ is awake,” Geralt mumbles, the words barely a puff. Jaskier touches his thigh beneath the water’s surface, petting him soothingly but otherwise, keeping his attention on Eskel. Geralt hums faintly, approving Jaskier to keep up his petting strokes that run the length of his inner thigh, from knee to groin in slow comfortable sweeps. Dog indeed.

“Let me,” Jaskier says, one hand on Geralt, one hand lifted from the water in a half-made reach towards the other Witcher. He doesn’t touch him, but he wants to. “Let me relax you too, Eskel; you will be a better man for accepting my affections. I would wash your hair and your back, if you’d like.”

Eskel’s amber gaze darkens as if a candle’s been blown out behind his eyes. “I am not a man.”

Geralt says things like that. Yes, yes, true, but…

“You’d be surprised at the similarities I can draw,” Jaskier challenges. He beckons with his fingers, wiggling, volleying droplets of sweetened water to speckle between them.

He feels Eskel’s arm flex behind him, his whole body adjust, a great breath drawn. It leaves him in a rush, a spark. Still, the Witcher makes no motion of accepting Jaskier’s advances of care despite the, well, the blatant interest stirring between his legs, plain to Jaskier from his proximity in the tinted water.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s head swivels to Geralt, who’s staring at them both from the slit of his eye, not but the poorest fleck of gold to be seen. Geralt finds Jaskier’s hand against his thigh and clasps it to his belly, sliding Jaskier’s touch up Geralt’s body, breaking the surface of the water, all the way up to his lips where Geralt nips the heel of Jaskier’s palm and gives a demanding little tug. It goes all the way through Jaskier, tugs at his heart, his flipping stomach, the string of pleasure that ties him all together to his dick. He abandons his entreaty on Eskel and goes easily to Geralt, helped into his lap with a familiar hand on his hips, casts himself astride the Witcher.

“Eskel,” Geralt says. His hands bracket Jasker, hold his hips, then his waist, roaming over his body possessively - no, proudly. He holds Jaskier’s eyes, his gaze a lazy taunt, a dark promise. He doesn’t look away from Jaskier when he orders to Eskel: “Watch, brother.”

“Uhn,” Jaskier moans at the words, a shock of excitement leaving him in a sigh that has him clenching his thighs around Geralt as a delicious filthy jolt bunches and leaps at the base of his belly, unstringing his barely-restrained arousal like the loosest of bows.

Geralt’s broad hands slide around him, over his chest, calloused palms rubbing hard against his nipples, scritching his chest hair to pull at his skin. Geralt keeps up his slow meandering possession, mapping Jaskier fully, both hands around his neck, closing briefly, a tease that makes Jaskier hum and press himself against Geralt’s belly, his cock firming quickly at the attention from his wolf. Geralt smirks, knowing but not giving in to Jaskier’s daring wants. Geralt cups Jaskier’s face, thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones, spreading chamomile scented water along the flushed points of his cheeks.

Geralt holds him like that, holds Jaskier’s eyes, holds his face as sweetly as he can in his scarred and sword-rough hands. For a moment, they only breathe, there, together, locked into each other.

“I missed you,” Jaskier whispers, watching how Geralt drops his eyes, unable to face Jaskier’s admission. Geralt’s hands twitch, a spasm, and he sweeps his thumbs across Jaskier’s cheeks once more, quick and rough, a too-hard pet. Jaskier catches Geralt by the chin, by his medallion, lifting his face and tangling the chord in his hand to pull Geralt to him for a kiss that Geralt would not initiate but will accept with private relief. He tastes like the dry and wooded end of good wine.

“As a flea misses his dog,” Geralt declares, dryer than the wine.

Jaskier bites Geralt’s bastard bottom lip in retaliation. Geralt draws back, his lip popping free and red from Jaskier’s teeth. Geralt sucks it into his mouth consideringly. Jaskier squints, watching the gears turn in Geralt’s head. That will never do. He’s hard now and he rolls his hips against Geralt and winds the chord tighter around his hand, uses it to balance himself as he ducks beneath Geralt’s frown and his chin to latch his mouth onto the Witcher’s neck and lave his tongue up the column of his throat, kissing just at the bolt of Geralt’s jaw.

“Watch him, Eskel,” Jaskier demands, low in Geralt’s ear, plenty loud for Eskel. If Geralt wants to play that game, Jaskier shall play it back fully. Geralt is lazy and will enjoy being tended too in front of his brother if he’s on a little exhibitionist kick.

Geralt’s breath hitches sharp and high, too high, for it to have been simply from Jaskier’s kiss or words. Jaskier raises himself up as Geralt arches underneath him, sucking in a gasp that sets Jaskier alert and searching only to find that the culprit, the source, is Eskel. That sweet cradling hand under Geralt’s skull has turned into a fist, pulling Geralt’s hair hard, tilting Geralt’s neck bare for Jaskier, stringing the Witcher out in a way Jaskier can’t do by force.

Jaskier’s mouth runs dry. He gasps just to see, to feel, Geralt’s immediate response, a rapid hardening against Jaskier’s own thigh, a surprised shine in Geralt’s eyes as he looks at his brother with betrayal.

Eskel kneels close to them, having slunk that way when Jaskier and Geralt were distracted. He gives off as much heat as the bath water and presses against them both, grip still firm in Geralt’s hair, a gentler hand finding its way to the small of Jaskier’s back.

“You suit each other too well,” he declares.

Geralt bears his teeth at his brother who holds him still, practically scruffing Geralt. Jaskier shakes his face free of Geralt’s hold and sits back on Geralt’s knees, balancing himself against Eskel’s hand; fuck if it doesn’t seem to cover the entire lower half of his back. Eskel rubs the tips of his fingers firmly against the top of Jaskier’s crack, his pinky sliding to rest between the cleave of his cheeks. Jaskier sits up bolt straight, twisting into and from the sensation with a gasp.

Geralt’s eyes flash at the sound, lips curling back from his fanged mouth.

“You would be a very sweet flea to have biting me,” Eskel laughs, a gentle sound; he smiles that same boyish snarling smile at Jaskier, amused and easy; his hand cups Jaskier’s ass, lifting him as if Jaskier weighs nothing. Jaskier swallows, feeling strange and light, almost queasy, as he’s taken from Geralt’s lap to Eskel’s chest, his hand coming undone from Geralt’s medallion. He wraps his arms around Eskel’s neck as they float backwards to the other end of the tub, Eskel finally releasing Geralt who sits up with a hard snort of air to rub at his sore scalp.

“Nearly a month, little bard, that my brother had me trolling these lands with him on a hunt he sniffed out too big for one Witcher. And then he wants to tease me with you,” Eskel shakes his head. “I will tell you the whole story, if you’d like.”

“Eskel,” Geralt growls, sloshing his way through the water to them.

“I - yes. Geralt’s rubbish with stories,” Jaskier agrees, settling himself comfortably against the other Witcher, enjoying Geralt’s pissy little growl radiating from behind them. He reaches a blind hand back, batting at Geralt’s chest. “Lazy with the details. Lazy with many things.”

“It’s never stopped you from inventing them,” Geralt argues, sliding up behind Jaskier to squeeze him between both Witchers. “Eskel, don’t start on that now. He won’t shut up for the rest of the night if he starts composing.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tucks himself against Eskel, slinking away from Geralt. “Do you see how he bullies me?” he simpers, hiding a coy smile against Eskel’s neck. His heart rabbits in his chest as the Witcher curls his arm tighter around Jaskier. Oh, what a lovely spot to have, passed from one Witcher to the next. He has truly peaked.

“I do,” Eskel says gravely, nodding his head in absolute sympathy. There’s a splash as Eskel jerks, kicking his foot out and against Geralt, faster than Jaskier would have thought him capable of moving. He shoves Geralt back, laughing as Geralt falls backwards into the tub with a great splash and much sputtering. Jaskier snorts, twisting to see Geralt roar up from the water, hair pasted madly across his face. Guess their little injuries are of no concern.

Faster too than he’d think, Eskel stands and deposits Jaskier on the edge of the tub just in time to keep him safe as Geralt lunges for his brother and drags them both beneath the surface. The tub’s big, big enough for several people to bathe in should they desire some bumping of knees and elbows, but it’s not made for two Witchers to throw each other around.

“You're soaking everything!” Jaskier yells, scrambling further back as his and the Witcher’s clothes are duly soaked, and his jar of scented salts is overturned from its perch at the tub’s edge, spilling over into the bath. He just hope the glass doesn’t break. “Geralt! You’re going to get us kicked out of a roof over our heads!”

Geralt pops up from the water, casually attempting to drown Eskel. “The stars are lovely this time of year.”

“Swear to Melitele, Witcher, if my reputation becomes that of a disorderly house guest I will piss in your boots.” Who'se he fucking kidding; he'll never be able to visit this Baron again after this fiasco.

Geralt looks like he’s considering the threat and weighing it against wrestling with his brother. For fuck’s sake. _Witchers, _Jaskier curses. It’s this kind of bullshit that makes people mutter darkly about them.__

Eskel gasps up from the water, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck to pull him face down into the water, using Geralt’s hair as a handhold. Jaskier groans into his hands. What happened to the sex? He thought there was going to be sex.

“I hate you both,” he tells them. Useless no good Witchers.

“Don’t be sore, little bard,” Eskel entreats, actually looking apologetic.

“There’s glass,” Jaskier warns tiredly, fetching the last of the wine to drain from the bottle in a selfish glug. “Do stop this before I’m picking shards from both of your feet.”

It seems to quell Eskel’s playful antagonism and he lets Geralt up, holding Geralt to him and biting his shoulder affectionately. It must be a sign between them because Geralt doesn’t retaliate, only fusses with his ridiculous hair. But he’s smiling, a distinct tilt to his mouth as he leans back against his brother, elbowing Eskel but not breaking the hold around his waist.

Brothers. What does that mean to them? Jaskier watches them with renewed interest, trying to parse the touches between them, the plain-faced affection and ease. Grown up together, hunting together, fucking and bathing together. A Witcher that will have the other’s back, no matter what, ready to die for the other? Sharing what they have with each other. An exchange of wants and needs. What’s mine is yours?

Jaskier slides back into the water, now truly blue from the salt, shimmering with oils. He tracks down the glass jar and sets it far from the tub’s edge. The water only rises to his waist, so much lost in the play. The two Witchers quiet as Jaskier wades to stand before them, only having to raise his face a little to find Eskel’s eyes.

“I want to kiss you,” Jaskier says plainly. It has the effect he expects; surprise and a duck of his chin, not able to lose Jaskier’s determined gaze but trying. Jaskier touches Eskel’s face, fingertips light as rain against his scarred cheek. He pressed his thumb to Eskel’s lips, sure and confident. “If you’d like that, dear Witcher.”

He has more to say but it’s lost because Eskel dives for his lips, taking Jaskier into his arms with a vigorous kiss. Jaskier laughs, surprised, their teeth clicking. Eskel mumbles something, an apology, but Jaskier kisses him silent, slowing his eager questing tongue with a warning nip.

“You should let a bard finish his words,” Jaskier protests, sliding his hand up to cover Eskel’s mouth, shuddering at the tongue that slides lewdly between his fingers. “For I want Geralt to kiss you from my mouth.”

There’s a hard breath from over Eskel’s shoulder, Geralt blocked from his line of sight but sounding quite acquiescing.

“Do you two kiss each other?” Jaskier has to ask before he loses his train of thought as Eskel begins kissing his way up Jaskier’s arm.

“No,” Geralt answers for them both. “Not…”

“Sometimes?” Jaskier volunteers for him. He leans over Eskel’s shoulder to see Geralt’s hesitant nod. “When there’s someone else between you?”

Another slow nod.

Jaskier reaches for Geralt, waiting patiently until Geralt steps up to him and presses against his brother’s backside so that he may find Jaskier’s lips and slide his tongue into him to lick the aftertaste of Eskel’s kiss from behind Jaskier’s teeth.

Jaskier moans for Geralt, for them both. Geralt groans just barely in answer, a stymied sound lost in too much flesh, kissing Jaskier harder, taking him by the back of the neck. Eskel’s found his neck as well, latching on to suck a dark mark along his collarbone.

“Bed,” Jaskier insists, breaking for air, arching and squirming as Eskel sinks his teeth against him, holding his skin in a pinch. No, no bed is big enough for the three of them. “The floor.”

“Here,” Geralt denies with a kiss, “now.”

“Impatient.”

Eskel’s cock is swollen against his, grinding into Jaskier in slow insistent thrusts. “Here, now,” Eskel agrees with his brother, a little breathless.

“Would you let me fuck you, Jaskier?” He thrusts pointedly, cock sliding fat and hot between Jaskier’s thighs, rubbing up against his balls, pushing through the silky water and against the silk of his skin. “You _smell_ tight.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat and though the words makes him mewl with twisted eagerness, he looks wildly at Geralt who hushes him with a soothing kiss.

“No, Eskel,” Geralt answers for him, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s, a hand on his cheek. Jaskier strains to kiss him again, knees weakening as Eskel fucks between his thighs and mouths at his neck.

There’s so much he needs to tell Geralt, wants to tell him. But not here, not with anyone else. Jaskier whines for him, hard against Eskel’s firm stomach. He wants so much. He wants them both.

“I want to feel your fingers,” Jaskier tells Eskel in a hushed voice. He must know what Eskel’s fingers feel like. He licks at Eskel’s ear, making the bigger Witcher moan as if wounded, hips shoving harder against Jaskier who loses his footing in the slippery water and has to cling to Eskel lest he fall.

“Don’t hurt him,” Geralt warns.

“Hurt me a little,” Jaskier corrects with a cheeky grin tossed at Geralt before he latches onto Eskels’ ear and swirls his tongue around it.

Eskel does hurt him, fingers digging tight into his hips as he fucks up between Jaskier’s thighs violently, bruising his cock and balls between them. He whines right into Eskel’s ear, the pain making his belly drop even as the hard pressure on his cock aches just right. He’s not really surprised that Eskel comes like that, probably strained and pent from his hunt, wound up by the messy arousal bleeding from Jaskier all evening. His seed is hotter than the water, hotter than blood, as it spills between Jaskier’s legs, covering his cock and balls and the underside of his ass with a potent stickiness that clings to him despite the water.

Eskel shudders, rubbing his face into Jaskier’s neck, mouthing at him and sniffing him, breath chasing goosebumps across Jaskier’s skin.

“And you would have denied yourself that all night,” Jaksier can’t help but tease, letting the Witcher come down. Geralt chuckles, tipping is head and shrugging as if that explains Eskel’s behavior. Like he’s one to talk. Jaskier could eviscerate him with a few recountings of Geralt’s own awkward couplings over the last couple of years.

He doesn’t get the chance to properly entertain embarrassing Geralt because Eskel hits his knees, draws Jaskier’s leg over his shoulder, and sucks down his cock with mute determination, swallowing him with a gag and a hard suck that has Jaskier’s eyes rolling into his skull.

“Oh, Fu-oh fuck, oh fuck, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier cries out to Geralt for aid, for reassurance, because after the barest second of a contemplative rub to his hole, Eskel’s pushing a finger into Jaskier’s ass with relentless pressure, spearing him open as if Jaskier’s dark soil to plant a seed deep within. Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s the hurt or if it’s simply the shock, but he cries out as he comes instantly, louder than normal, jerking himself against Eskel’s face and riding that too-big finger on that too-big hand that’s too-much.

Geralt’s there, balancing him, kissing him quiet as Jaskier shudders, grinding himself mercilessly into Eskel’s welcoming throat, insides squirming as Eskel twists the finger inside him; the Witcher kneels there, choking his way through a prayer as his throat fills with Jaskier’s spend, like he’s pressing it out of Jaskier from the inside. He is, pressing on Jaskier’s prostate with force, making Jaskier cry and writhe, mouths hanging open and gagged by a breathless choked silence as sure as if someone’s slipped a cock down his throat to stop his voice.

Geralt eases him out of Eskel’s throat, both of them hearing the cough and deep breath from the Witcher below. Jaskier pants, holding still and quivering as Eskel fucks him with one massive finger. It’s the same size as Geralt when he wears his leather gloves, far rougher than that smooth worn fabric.

“He’s even tighter than he smells,” Eskel mutters, barely sounding like he hadn’t just been throat-fucked and come in. He pulls his finger free and Jaskier clenches around the sudden emptiness, weak with it. Eskel kisses his navel affectionately, rubs his thighs as if to restore blood. Maybe. Maybe he needs it restored. Jaskier can’t even think. He feels blown out, stunned by the sudden force of an orgasm he hadn’t been prepared to have.

Geralt’s admiring him. Thinking. That’s a worrying thing. Geralt thinking and Jaskier too dumb and mute to distract him from clicking one thought to the next and leading them down a bad road.

“You broke him,” Geralt concludes, lifting Jaskier up out of the water as if he’s naught but a doll, settling them together against the side of the tub, Jaskier spread across his lap once more, dizzy and pliant. “Well done, Eskel. Peace at last.”

“Bitch,” Jaskier mutters, dropping his head to Geralt’s shoulder with a weak moan as Geralt replaces that empty space inside him with his own finger, probing deep as Jaskier’s body gives over to the greater strength of him, soft from orgasm. “I’ll never give you peace.”

“No?” Geralt sets a punishing rhythm with his finger, fucking him deftly. It would be too much, too loud and too lewd, but under the water it’s muted, dulled, made worse and better as Geralt fucks water into Jaskier, sloshing his insides and making a mess of him as he pulls Jaskier’s rim with mean affection, letting the silky water seep hotly inside him until he loses track of where he ends and the heat of the bath begins.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier begs, overwhelmed. He chokes on his spit when Eskel finds him, sliding his hand down to join Geralts, circling his rim where he’s tight around Geralt’s finger. “Please. Please, I -.”

But he wants it. He huffs into Geralt’s neck, biting him for lack of words. Neither Witcher moves as Jaskier shudders, clenching and throbbing around Geralt’s finger. He’s still zinging from his orgasm, that space inside him burning and ready to catch alight should he give himself up to the Witchers.

Slowly, gently, Geralt pumps his finger, pulling Jaskier’s rim as Eskel starts to rub at him, easing the tip of his fat finger along the puckered muscle. Jaskier sighs, spreading himself more, arching for it. Geralt presses down against his flesh and Eskel in and then they move as one, filling him and splitting him with ease.

“Oh, fuck, that’s - that’s good, that’s...fuck,” Jaskier decides on, voice thin, draping himself against Geralt as Eskel growls and sits closer. They move slowly, and Jaskier tries to guess which finger is which but cannot, the feeling a blur; he imagines their hands twined somewhere between him. Geralt’s palm cups his balls close to his body and Eskel’s back to rubbing his renewed erection against Jaskier’s back. “Fuck me.”

“Like this?” Geralt checks, curling his finger. Jaskier moans and nods furiously.

He claws at Geralt’s hair, gathering himself to kiss him, to curl his tongue around Geralt’s feral teeth. “Sure. That's - that’s good. I want to suck you. Both of you. I - I don’t even know what Eskel’s cock looks like,” he cries, lamenting, dying at the thought. How rude of him. Shame unto his family.

“I’ll show you,” Eskel huffs. He slides it against Jaskier’s back in promise. “Turn around.”

“I’m full of fingers, that’s asking for a lot,” Jaskier manages, sinking deeper onto both of their hands with an exasperated and breathless moan, as if demonstrating his point. It’s not the wrong move to make because Geralt holds him with a hand on the back of his neck and Eskel cants his hips out, making him arch for them, and then they’re fucking him again, moving as one and not, opening him up and reaching deeper inside him than he can ever find himself.

Someone slips a third finger into him in the scant opening they’ve made, his rim pulled tight and white hot. They don’t wait, just rub his back and his hip, rub him inside too. He wants to be hard again, is somewhat, but mostly he just burns, feeling scalded and slowly wearing thin.

Geralt kisses him, although Jaskier’s shit at it in the moment, just panting against the Witcher and letting Geralt lick his mouth and fuck his tongue into him in mimicry of what he’s doing to Jaskier’s ass, what he might very well do with his cock. It’s a drunken idea, sets Jaskier to a boil. He wants to be used, to be a middle vessel between them.

It’s Eskel, Eskel’s two fingers inside him. Jaskier can tell on a particularly hard thrust that jolts him forward against Geralt, makes him cry out as Eskel _spreads_ him, lifting Jaskier out of the water with a firm hand inside and a firm hand on his hip, all the fingers slipping free, leaving behind a throbbing phantom sensation of being full and fucked even as his body pulses in the emptiness left behind.

Geralt helps him rise and then they’re laying him over the edge of the tub and _looking_ , Eskel spreading his ass open to admire the reddened, softened furl of his opening, the twitching and fluttering of his ass. Jaskier buries his face into the crook of his arm and helps their oggling along by pulling his knees shakily beneath himself and lifting his bottom to their hungry eyes.

They may have vanquished the werewolves of the land, but Jaskier feels freshly killed by two wolves of his own design.

“Jas,” Geralt croaks, fucking undone by the submission.

Jaskier knows he loves this. He loves it too. He doesn’t think he could be so bare and naked, so exposed, for anyone but his Witcher because if he were to turn and look, the hunger, the want, the tightly wound restraint on Geralt’s face is his favorite sight. Because Geralt will never take more than Jaskier offers.

Jaskier reaches back to touch himself, has to feel the swollen heat of his ass. Both Witchers groan, and then the air fills with the unmistakable sound of hands jerking cocks; Jaskier slips one, two, three of his own fingers into himself with relative ease, aided by the oil from the water. One of them holds his ass, a hand clamped bruising on his cheek

He thinks he could get four.

It’s an awkward strain on his wrist, but he tries at the very least, pumping his fingers slow and deep, down to the root of his knuckle until he’s sucking at his own palm, groaning and biting his fist. His groans echo from Geralt and Eskel as they watch, watch him ease his fingers in and out of himself, insides red and glistening as he baits himself, heart hurtling up his throat as he sinks down, hand cramping as his pinky finger folds under his ring finger and then he’s spearing himself, moaning long and loud as he rocks back into his hand, body swallowing itself like an oroboros.

A dick slaps against his ass. Jaskier startles, fingers falling from his ass.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, breathing hard, rubbing himself against Jaskier’s swollen hole. “You’re so-”

“Pretty,” Eskel chokes. “So pretty to watch.”

 _Nasty_ , Jaskier thinks to himself, twisting with the word.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees, a wry edge to his voice as he enjoys a private joke. He’s rubbing his cockhead against Jaskier’s hole, kissing the tip into the open pucker, spreading the drool of his precum in a burning promise of things to come that he dare not take right now. “Pretty.”

Jaskier bites his lip so hard it bursts. He swallows it as fast as he can but Geralt bucks against him at the smell, takes him by the neck to pull him upright on his knees, questing for his mouth to kiss the wound.

“Shh,” Geralt soothes, fucking the seam of his ass. “You’re so wound up.”

 _“I missed you,”_ Jaskier repeats around a hiccup, blood smeared on Geralt’s lips from the kiss, trying to explain himself, failing, scrabbling for sense and not finding it. He doesn’t know how to organize his thoughts, hasn’t been able to talk himself through it. It’s been chaotic, messy. He’d followed rumors for so long trying to find Geralt again after the brutal winter that’d fucked the Pontar with flooding, and then Eskel had walked in and it hadn’t been Geralt and for a second Jaskier thought the whole order of the world had fallen apart. He hasn’t been sound since, strung the whole time to the point of snapping, trying desperately to keep the whole story rolling and moving and not sure where he lay between the lines, what’s true or his imagination.

“Shh,” Geralt repeats, unsure of how to comfort him. He stills himself and holds Jaskier to him, hand firm on his belly, reaching around to strip Jaskier’s cock. “What do you want?”

Jaskier wants to scream is what he wants.

“I want to see Eskel’s giant cock.”

Geralt chuckles, relaxing slightly, rubbing Jaskier’s belly and working him in his hand in long, hard strokes that pull Jaskier closer and closer to the second edge. “Eskel, give him what he wants.”

Eskel climbs out of the bath and around them, touching Jaskier’s face kindly even as his fat fucking dick bobs before Jaskier’s lips. It’s a goddamn tree trunk, shorter than Geralt’s but Jaskier knows without needing to try that he’d need two hands to make his fingers meet. Jaskier’s eyes cross as he watches the bobbing tip. Eskel smooths Jaskier’s wet hair out of his face, stroking his fingers deliciously along his scalp.

“And then what?” Geralt murmurs in his ear. He keeps Jaskier afloat by the hand on his cock, the other coming now to Jaskier’s mouth, thumbing his blooded lip, pressing into the gash. He adores Jaskier’s mouth, his ceaselessly open loud mouth. He’ll deny it all day long but no one touches what they don’t love, not that much. His thumb slips easily inside Jaskier’s lips as his fingers come to cradle the underside of his jaw, stroking the muscle of him as he swallows.

Jaskier looks up from the cock before him to Eskel; the Witcher looks blessedly lost, expectant, wanting and nervous. He’s holding his cock at its base, stroking himself just enough to pull the foreskin forward and back, the head a red shining pommel of a sword. He too is transfixed by Jaskier’s mouth, watching it suck leisurely at his brother’s thumb.

Jaskier quirks his lips up at the Witcher and bites on Geralt to make him free Jaskier enough to talk, to run his troublesome gift of a mouth.

“Eskel, what do you want?” Jaskier asks sweetly.

It’s not hard to guess when the Witcher huffs, butting his cock against Jaskier’s lips. He smells like chamomile, mostly, a little like sex. Jaskier reaches for him, and yes, gods, the fingers of one hand have miles to go if they were to dare to want to touch.

“Fuck my mouth?” Jaskier offers for him, not taking him inside, shaping the words over the tip of his hot flesh. “It is my noble and self-appointed duty to please my dear Witchers. I am,” Jaskier’s eyes cross again as he looks down the mountain length of the fat weapon before him, “sword-sworn, some might say.”

“Eager cocksucker.”

“Yes, that too, Geralt, but it lacks my poetic preferences.”

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s cock to make him hiccup and that’s about the beginning and end of Geralt’s poetic preferences. Eskel keeps up his frantic brushing of Jaskier’s hair, every once in awhile bunching it in his fist, teasing the roots of his hair with a tender threat.

“I think I’m beginning to understand you, little bard,” Eskel says, short of breath and full on wonder.

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle. “Oh?”

That would make one person. He’ll have to ask Eskel what he’s all about because it would be lovely to know. Jaskier’s long since given up on himself, swinging about wildly and hoping for the best, appeasing his heart and his urges while treading alone the barest line of morality. He slips and falls between the sides often, demarcation damned and lost beneath his wanderlust feet.

Eskel only runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, smiling in promise as he looks to Geralt. “Brother, if I take his mouth, where shall that leave you? Will you fuck him after he’s opened himself sweetly for you?”

Geralt’s hand goes strangle-tight on Jaskier’s cock, too hard and making Jaskier buck against him.

“I’ll watch,” Geralt drawls into Jaskier’s ear, voice as low and as dark as a grave.

Eskel slips into Jaskier’s begging-open mouth, and oh, gods, his jaw cannot open wide enough. But it does, his ears seeming to pop as Eskel fills all his senses, slick and heavy. Jaskier moans, going boneless with the immediate heady sensation of a cock between his lips and weighing down his whole skull.

Eskel pops free with a thoughtful noise, tipping Jaskier’s face back with the hand in his hair to admire him. “I wonder if you smell so sweet because you’re a virgin.”

Jaskier flushes and he bats ineffectually at Eskel’s hand in his hair, grasping the Witcher’s wrist. “You can’t smell that,” he protests, giving himself away.

Eskel laughs, tipping his head knowingly. He has the same smug smile Geralt gets when he’s being an asshole. “If my brother had fucked you, even after months away from him, I would have been able to smell where he had you. If he came inside you, Jaskier, I would know.

Jaskier moans, buckling back against Geralt. Geralt bites his neck with his own growl of - of promise? Appreciation for his brother’s words? It can’t be true. That’s nonsense, it would be impossible. But Jaskier’s eyes roll at the thought, the improbable possibility of it - that’s what he craves, what he fears. That’s the red-wet promise he thinks of when he imagines taking Geralt like that, letting his cock spill his mutagen come somewhere too deep to ever leave him. Would it be a lifetime of carrying the Witcher inside him? Could he truly smell claimed like that, no matter what, no matter who else Jaskier laid with, Geralt able to part his thighs and smell himself imbedded too far into the hot center of Jaskier, fucked all the way up into his heart, his lungs, caught in his mouth with every gasp he’ll ever take? To have any other Witcher Jaskier might come across know that he’s laid claim to the White Wolf, given him a name and taken his body for his own, an exchange; have what I have, take what I give.

Eskel cups Jaskier’s face in both hands, rubbing the soon to be split corners of his lips.

“I understand,” Eskel soothes. Jaskier nods, not sure why. Geralt shifts behind him, easing Jaskier onto his hands and knees so that he can rut himself against his ass, cock dragging against the hot sore heat of his center. Jaskier thinks wildly that he could swallow Geralt whole, his hole fluttering at each teasing drag of Geralt’s cock rutting between his cheeks.

“You want to smell like the both of us tonight, right, Jaskier?”

“Yes,” Jaskier hisses, grateful - understood. Eskel kneels before him so that the angle’s easier for Jaskier and lets go of his face with a startled grunt as Jaskier wraps his lips around the head of Eskel’s dick.

He was planning to sing tomorrow but fuck, this is too precious a moment to be wasted. Damn his voice - he does not think the thought lightly, mind you, but damn it all the same. He’s overeager, driving himself forward in haste and carelessness, gagging almost immediately to his great mortification.

Geralt’s hand appears at his underside of his throat, wrapping around Jaskier’s and easing his pace. Watch? Geralt wishes to do more than watch Jaskier suck his brother, he wants to feel it when Eskel slides into Jsakier’s throat and distends him, wants to feel the bump of his cockhead as Eskel fucks Jaskier’s face with slow precision. Hold Jaskier’s shivering cries and thumb the blood rushing in his veins.

Eskel trembles to stay gentle, gentle to his core; he drags his fingers through Jaskier’s hair frantically, occasionally tugging Jaskier’s roots to a tender sting but he’s careful, letting Jaskier lick him when his jaw aches or pant wetly against his slobbering cockhead while he jerks himself and smears slickly across Jaskier’s pink cheeks. All the while, Geralt remains pasted to Jaskier’s back, holding his throat, fondling his cock, leisurely fucking the split of Jaskier’s ass. Jaskier’s dripping with the oily remains of the bath, with Geralt’s precome, with his own sweat.

His jaw aches fiercely, his lips long since numb, the split from his own teeth has burned itself to ruin. Every once in awhile, when he slides dizzily towards a peaceful lack of anything while choking on Eskel’s length in his throat, the great weight of him, Geralt will nip his ear and twist a hand on his cock and snap his hips to jostle Jaskier alert once more. Jaskier teeters at the edge of breaking, his second orgasm _right there_ , but there’s no great urge. He’s held together by the two Witchers and can’t fathom coming before them. They’ve worked so hard, and he’s here to bridge the gap to their pleasure.

It’s good and right when Eskel tips Jaskier’s face up to take the hot load of his come. Jaskier couldn’t close his jaw if he wanted to, mouth hanging slack and drooling as Eskel paints his face white, finished on his tongue with a few snaps of his hips to shove his seed deeper into Jaskier’s mouth so the taste goes all the way up to his brain. There’s no time to relish it because Geralt flips him over roughly, Jaskier falling onto his back with a gasp, air knocked from him.

Geralt kisses him, all tongue, licks Eskel off his lips and out of his mouth. He licks the blood that’s smeared and gone sticky from Jaskier’s gashed lip. He ruts wildly against Jaskier’s belly, dragging their cocks together. Jaskier takes it, gives it, however you want to slice it; he’s useless, should be doing something but can’t find the urge to interrupt whatever energy’s grabbed hold of Geralt. It’s too good to watch him, to let Geralt do as he likes. What he likes right then in bruising Jaskier’s thighs in his hands and fucking the crease of his flesh - getting distracted and biting Jaskier’s chest and licking his matted chest hair, licking his face too, the disugsting fiend, taking every trace of Eskel with him to his satisfaction.

Eventually, he catches Jaskier’s eyes and freezes, just a moment, just long enough for Jaskier to offer him a fond smile, and then the Witcher kneels over Jaskier’s chest and starts stripping his cock.

“Keep your mouth open,” Geralt grunts, bracing a hand beside Jaskier’s head while he arches over Jaskier, orgasm looming.

Jaskier wants to say, my dear, I could not close my mouth if I tried, because my jaw popped out of place about three minutes into your brother’s cock in my mouth.

He doesn’t say that. Because he can’t. He pants raggedly through his mouth, tongue out, drunk with expectation, scratching his nails into Geralt’s thighs -- his heart beats like he’s amidst a battle and not lain out on the soaking wet floor of a nobleman’s bathing room, smelling of sex and flowers.

He shuts his eyes against the first jet of Geralt’s come. It’s his first and only orgasm of the night and his body must know because he has much to give Jaskier. He grunts, aiming, wetting Jaskier’s cheeks and chin, dipping himself into Jaskier’s obedient mouth to fill him to a desperate swallow, seeing how he pools on his tongue and drips back into his throat.

Jaskier breathes carefully through his nose, battered throat spasming as he keeps from choking. Geralt pants above him, worn ragged from holding himself together, from finally letting go; from having Jaskier and his ready adoration with him once more.

Slowly, hesitating as if he has not had his way with Jaskier, eyes watching Jaskier for a flinch, for anything, any resistance - finding none, finding only trust and eagerness - Geralt circles his hand around Jaskier’s neck and murmurs to him: “Swallow.”

Jaskier arches as he swallows his heavy mouthful of Geralt. He can’t even taste it, not really, its so much. It’s atop Eskel; it’s a mess upon a mess. Jaskier swallows again, again, panting, aching. He closes his eyes as Geralt probes his mouth, pets his tongue. He smears what’s left of himself from Jaskier’s face and uses it to slicken his hand as he jerks Jaskier off to a second orgasm.

Eskel, dear Eskel, strokes the hair from his face and murmurs praise at him. Jaskier nuzzles his palm, shifting so that Eskel cradles his head from the ground. The Witcher huffs at him and shifts to make it more comfortable for both of him. Geralt hums and contents himself with licking Jaskier’s belly and cock clean.

“I do-” Jaskier’s jaw cracks, a pop that hits all the way to his ear. He glares at Eskel for looking too damn pleased with himself.

“You’re a brave creature for what you just did, you know,” Eskel teases. “And very generous.”

“Trust me, Eskel,” Jaskier boasts, only having to clear his throat a little to get the words out. He’s wild thirsty, eyes roaming the room for a drink, “it was entirely stupid and entirely selfish.”

He flops a hand onto Geralt’s hair to tug him to attention. Geralt hums against the skin of his hip and looks up at Jaskier sleepily. Oh ho, worn out from one measly orgasm. Poor darling Witcher.

“If you’re quite done, I’d like to rinse off-”

“No.” The bolt of Geralt’s jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth too late after his quick words.

“You smell like us,” Eskel says. “Even if Geralt did try to reclaim you all for his own, you smell like both of us. Didn’t you want that?”

“Y-yes,” Jaskier mumbles, sucking his sore lip into his mouth. It is what he wanted. Neither would stop him if he insisted, but neither seem eager to let him up either. Geralt’s licked the worst of any mess from his skin, and well, if he sleeps with them both, surely the morning will bring a new mess if he’s very lucky. “Yes, fine, fine, let’s all relish the luxury of a bath tomorrow. We shall all smell as one tonight while you _both_ fill me in on this hunt. I have done my share in the celebration, now what happened without me?”

It’s been too many months since he’s heard a good story, after all. 


End file.
